Strange Things are Happening
by whatevergirl
Summary: A/E, It all begins when Arthur agrees to help Yusuf in testing his new compound. Eames had always been someone he noticed, but now he was really sticking in his mind.
1. Chapter 1

_I've decided to write an Inception story. It'll be a slash story between Arthur and Eames, but I don't know how long it will take me to get there. The rating is currently T, but it may change. _

_Just a note to say that Inception obviously is not mine, and if I made money off this I would not have to live with family. Also, Christopher Nolan is a genius. Title is because I have been listening to my Toy Story songs, by Randy Newman._

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><p><span>Strange Things are Happening<span>

It was in a dream that Arthur's interest was first piqued. He was visiting Yusuf to collect the compound necessary for steady, two-level dreaming. It should be capable of keeping the projections calm even when changes were made. In a mind that was not militarised, at any rate. As partial compensation, he had agreed to help the man out in tests, the rest was monetary. Arthur trusted Yusuf; he was an honest man, and Saito believed in him. He trusted Saito to do all the necessary research before placing his 'Tourist' mind into the chemist's hands. Also, Eames swore by him.

Yusuf was trying to develop a compound that would allow the dreamer to change. This would be particularly useful in extraction for if the original dreamer was killed and the job had not yet been finished. They had decided to stick to hotels in this dream. Each of them had a different style so they could tell who the new dreamer was. One minute he was looking through the hotel waiting for Malik to die, the next he stepped out the lobby into a classroom.

He frowned and stepped further into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. High School style posters covered the walls; a large display of the planets (Nine of them, rather than eight); another display on wave partials, on light waves, microwaves, infrared rays and other kinds of electromagnetic radiation. With paragraphs of writing; bullet points; flow charts and mini diagrams all done in bright colours... The place made him slightly nostalgic of his own high school days spent carefully, neatly making revision posters.

He focused his attention on the students who were filing into the classroom from a corridor filled with lockers along the far side wall. The transition from the hotel had been smooth; he'd still been expecting to see the hotel lobby through that door. He'd not felt any kind of jolt to imply to original dreamer had been kicked out. No one glanced at him. Students sat at their desks, some pulling out books and stationary, others turning to chatter. The stern looking teacher stalked straight past Arthur and dropped his books onto his desk. The children looked to be in their teens, maybe fourteen or fifteen. They all wore school uniforms; black shoes, black pants or a black skirt and tights, white shirts and dark blue sweater vests with a school logo emblazoned on the breast. They wore white, blue and gold striped ties and most had blazers over the backs of their chairs. A few wore pullovers as well.

They all seemed to speak with English accents. Arthur stared curiously at them, he was supposed to be in a hotel, and none of them had specified an English hotel. He wondered where this was coming from.

"Quiet! I am doing the register. Thompson, sit!"

Arthur moved over to the door, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. This was odd. Not the projections conversing, but how far removed from the others he felt.

"Peter Allen?" A small boy responded. Arthur watched him pull an exercise book from his bag.

"Michael Adams?" Another boy called out.

"Helen Carter? ... Cameron Dunne? ... Stephen Eames?"

Arthur's attention left Neptune and refocused on the lanky boy who answered the teacher's call. Stephen Eames... He could see some semblance to Eames. The grey eyes, the full lips, in his slouch, even in the way he was sucking his pen.

"Patrick Johnson? No? ... Andrew Lee?"

Beside the boy Eames sat another familiar face. Yusuf? They both wore the same uniform as the other students and they were both neater than Arthur could remember ever seeing them. Yusuf was slightly plumper than he was now, and his arms were folded in front of him protectively. Eames was staring at the ceiling, still mouthing his pen in an inappropriate way that was apparently a habit, and not a ploy to annoy Arthur as he had assumed.

Why were they here? Was this a memory? He knew Eames and Yusuf had met before the Fischer job, that they had been friends in Mombasa. He did not know if they knew each other in school. They _were_ only born five months apart, close enough to be in the same school year. However, he had never asked Yusuf about his past, having no real interest in it and Eames had invented fantastical stories when questioned about his.

"John Parker? Hey, quiet... Yusuf Sareen?" The boy answered.

Were they just his own projections? If he headed into the corridor, would he encounter a young Cobb by a locker? Or a teenage Saito in the school yard? Might he see people from his own school days?

He was torn between staying and watching them, or going to explore.

He heard the opening notes to Cantus Iteratus, Yusuf's current countdown music. He only had a few minutes. He decided to leave the room and head down the corridor, passing cabinets that displayed trophies and decorative shields. The other classrooms seemed to be empty, but details littered the walls regardless. Rows of desks stood empty in the bright sunlight that filtered through the windows. Posters filled with pictures and words covered the walls.

He opened one of the doors and glanced in, still listening to the singing voices. It wasn't empty. There was a teacher sat at the desk, looking blankly at the cover of a maroon exercise book. He moved onto the next room and pushed the door open. Another teacher stood facing her blackboard, chalk held limply in her fingers. Her face was expressionless and Arthur backed out the room.

Then he woke up.

Beside him, Robinson and Hall were both moving. They were Yusuf's friends and fellow chemists.

Yusuf was pulling the IV out his wrists, looking confused, but eager.

"Fascinating. Most curious... Thank you, Adoyo." He accepted a cup of water off the old man and he muttered to himself. "Fascinating."

"Hey, was that your old school? I think I recognise the school crest." Robinson was now stood by the old sink.

"Yeah," Yusuf was nodding, "But it was so empty. I went to secondary school and sixth form there."

Malik, the original dreamer looked curious. "I thought we were sticking to hotels. A school?"

"Yes. I took control of the dream after you kicked out, but I think it was my memories that took over. There were teachers in the classrooms-"

"They were well creepy!" exclaimed Hall.

"Yes... But no pupils."

"No," Arthur spoke up. "I was in a physics class, but there were people there. The teacher took roll call."

They all looked over. Arthur frowned. He had a desire to ask about Eames, but he knew to stick to the important things now. Questioning Yusuf about the young Eames would not get him his compound, or help Yusuf develop this batch.

He suppressed a sigh and went to get a bottle of water out of his bag.

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><p><em>There, hope you have enjoyed it so far. I'm not brilliant at updating, but I don't want to leave this too long. Especially as I can't really read my own handwriting so it's better not to leave my notes too long without adding anything to them.<em>

_I did my best to Americanise certain things, but I couldn't remember what word to use instead of jumpers. Hopefully pullover works fine._

_Please let me know what you think, and if you've spotted any mistakes I've missed. Reviews help motivate me to update... =)  
><em>


	2. Chapter 2

_Oki, updating. Beyond thanking my one reviewer, I don't have much to say. So, I'll just get on with it._

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><p><span>Chapter 2<span>

Arthur did his best to put the incident out of his mind. He headed back to his apartment to prepare for the next job. He wasn't sure if he'd need to use the compound yet, but he'd work out what was needed when he got the rest of this team sorted and a plan set out. It was a fairly routine job though; a woman wanted to know if her husband was having an affair with a pretty young department head. He didn't really anticipate the need for more than one dream level.

It wasn't the first time a client had gone straight to him rather than an extractor. He was very well known in the dream business, and people always tried to get help from the best. It was not his ego claiming he was the best point.

He knew Eames was a decent extractor, as he was fairly certain the man was a thief in reality as well. He was an inspired forger, capable of solid, thorough images. He could also build, but not particularly well. Eames tended to leave a lot of details blank, he allowed the subject to fill them in. From what Arthur understood, this was the way forging worked. However, it was a risky strategy for an architect; it could lose them their control of the dream, their control of the landscape.

Many of those who were brilliant were capable of performing several jobs; Arthur enjoyed being an architect, finding ways to make others dizzy, to make them falter. He wasn't very good at extraction but he often played the foil, the poisoned cover. He was fairly quick at making decisions.

Dominic Cobb was an amazing architect; some of the mazes he'd made when Mal was alive had been the best Arthur had ever seen. He did suspect that Ariadne could be better with the right guidance. Dom was also a good extractor. He always did his best, so nearly always got what he needed, nearly always completed the job.

Arthur was unsure if he was better than Eames though. On simple statistics, Eames had a better success rate, but Dom took on more complex extractions. They both took different routes to getting what they wanted. Both were quick to improvise when new situations arose. You didn't get to be the best unless you could adapt to the changing nature of dreams.

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><p>The point man looked down at the folder that was open on his laptop, wondering if he could get Eames in for this one. He already wanted Ariadne; she would continue with the dream business in-between college, he knew. However, he did want to delay the progress of corruption in her for as long as possible. Very little of this work was legal, so she was not in a safe place. She couldn't go to the courts when people started going back on deals, or sold them out. He planned to bleed this understanding into her in a slow steady drip.<p>

He would ask Eames, he decided. Not because he wanted to see him, to see if he could find that younger side of him, but rather because it would limit exposing Ariadne to criminals; a very important reason.

He glanced over at his clock; it was a little after 11pm. Paris would be after 8am. This was an acceptable time to phone. Picking his mobile up, he skimmed through the 'A' contacts to her number.

It wasn't long before she croaked out a greeting at him "Wha-?"

"Are you awake?"

"Arthur?"

"Yes."

"Jus' a sec..." he could hear rustling, a cough then, "What's up?"

"I have a job, will you be available?"

"Oh, umm... I think so. I've sped through my dissertation and I've made a load of models."

"When can you be here?"

"Here where? And... Next week?"

"Send me a date. I'll get you a plane ticket sent."

"Oh, very secretive." He could hear the grin in her voice.

"I'm hanging up now." There was no one for him to hide his own grin from.

"Oh! Wait... who'll be there?"

"Just a small group. Hopefully only me, you and Eames, but I've not asked him yet. Goodbye Ariadne."

"I'm going back to sleep. Bye Arthur."

He hung up still smiling.

Eames had returned to the south east of England, so it wouldn't yet be 7.30am for him. He was aware Eames always got up about 9am when he wasn't working, so it would be no use ringing him till later in the day.

He browsed for a few minutes before switching off his laptop. No harm in getting ready for bed and reading for a while.

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><p>It was late in the afternoon before Arthur had things sorted out. Eames had agreed to cut his holiday short and would be coming over Tuesday. Ariadne would be arriving Friday morning. He was pleased; there was a job in Vancouver that would have been the perfect excuse for Eames to show off, but maybe he preferred the smaller, more familiar group Arthur had.<p>

Arthur had already made up his mind to eat out for dinner. It was fairly late, and he didn't want to cook anything. It was cold evening; the air was damp and the wind biting. The man grabbed a long thick coat and headed out, picking up his wallet and keys as he passed the side table by the door.

Fastening up his coat as he jogged down the stairs and into the street, Arthur braced himself before moving through the orange glow of the street lights. He quickly decided he'd rather return to the warmth of his apartment soon, so headed off to a small Indian takeaway a few blocks away. If he ate at home he'd be warm and could give Cobb a call, then see how the kids were doing.

Stepping inside, he just held of a sigh of relief. The higher temperature surrounded him and pressed onto his icy cheeks. The man stared at the large menu that covered the wall. It had changed since he'd last been here and the prices had risen. It was too long since he'd been home...

Maybe he would get Chinese for dinner instead. Or Thai. He wasn't sure... that man having a smoke over the road... he'd been there since Arthur had entered the takeaway. Strange. He looked vaguely familiar though; not his face, Arthur couldn't see that, but his stance... or was he just thinking of Eames again.

He decided to get something from here, and pulled out his phone after placing an order. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he kept it up and slid his finger along the screen. Discretely, he zoomed in and clicked a photo of the man. He didn't recognise the face, but maybe Cobb would, or Eames. He'd ask Eleanor too, she was up to date with people in general who helped out in the dream business. He'd have a think about who else he could trust.

Twenty minutes later, his food was done. He gathered it up in this plastic bag and left the warmth. The man had stepped from the curb into the shadows.

Arthur set off, taking note of the fact that he was being followed. Reaching his road, he stopped by the bus stop and tugged his phone out again. He used this self made opportunity to look at the other man. Arthur's red headed follower hesitated, and then turned down a side road. It wasn't that Arthur was trying to protect his location, because he clearly knew where this apartment was, but he didn't feel like acting ignorant either. He waited a few minutes, and then finished his journey home.

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><p><em>Another chapter done. Please let me know what you think.<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_Hey, time to update. Thanks to Soapiefan and my other reviewer for their comments :D_

_Just so you know, most of this story will probably be written from Arthur's POV, and I'm going to have him already somewhat into Eames, or we'll be here forever. Please keep in mind I haven't done ICT for about 4 years._

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><p><span>Chapter 3<span>

A lock of black hair fell in front of deep brown eyes. A huff of breath caused it to twitch before lithe fingers combed it back. There was a cool wind blowing through the open doors of the arrivals lounge caused various people stood around to shudder slightly. Ariadne's flight wasn't due for another hour, but Eames' should have landed nearly 20 minutes ago. He knew that it would land late because Eames had called from the airport to tell him there was a delay. He thought wistfully of how quickly and efficiently they'd boarded aeroplanes when Saito had been with them.

Still, it was no use complaining. Arthur returned his gaze to the laptop in front of him. The mark, James Crawford, was heading out to an office party that evening. Thankfully, it was a 'night-out' style party, so Eames could follow and observe them without looking out of place.

He began a traceless link to the office intranet so that he could download recent messages.

"Flight B5279 from Heathrow is now landing. Flight B5279 from Heathrow is now landing. Passengers will be disembarking and emerging from Baggage Collection Area C. Those collecting are asked to not block the exit. Repeat..."

Finally. But, Arthur continued working. Eames needed to clear immigration and baggage before Arthur could see him.

Would Eames look out of place if he went alone? Maybe Arthur and Ariadne should go along with him... it would be nice for them to sit together and play catch up while Eames worked. He could watch the man's back, and Ariadne could help.

He had booked them all into hotel rooms just round the corner from the office block. He may live in this city, but he still wasn't going to openly flaunt his home's location. He was fairly certain Eames knew where he lived anyway, but he had been followed recently... no, it was best if he avoided his home for a while.

7.30pm, this evening. They were going for a meal, then out clubbing. Arthur began to look through the emails for some discussion of what to wear. He hadn't been out to clubs since he'd been in the army. He had to fit in...

Just ten minutes later, Arthur had decided on a smart pair of jeans and a nice shirt. Perhaps his plain baby blue oxford... Ariadne would dress nicely, as ever. But Eames... Arthur tried to imagine him in denim. His fashion sense was stuck in an era before sweats or jeans. If he didn't have any, then they would need to go pick some up.

He looked up when he noticed people starting to move out from collecting their luggage. The point man quickly focused on the crowds, trying to distract himself from thoughts of the forger in jeans that clung to his arse and thighs.

"Arthur." A grin spread across his lips, Eames moved around people to great him. "How are you?"

"We have just over forty five minutes until Ariadne's flight is due."

"Really? So glad to hear it. Me? I'm wonderful, ta for asking."

Arthur sighed and resisted rolling his eyes this early. "I'm fine, thank you Eames. How are you?"

The man grinned, slung his backpack over his shoulder and grabbed a small holdall he'd set down a moment before.

"Where are we waiting for the lovely Ariadne then?"

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><p>Ariadne was suspicious; he could tell from her shifty glances and the way she kept listening in on his conversations. This would not be a problem generally, if he had some vague idea about what she wanted to know.<p>

He focused on his reflection. A tie? No... He tugged at the collar of his shirt. Should he have tucked it into his jeans?

"Arthur?" The soft alto voice was a few short feet behind him. Its owner wore a beautiful dark blue dress that complimented her figure tastefully.

"Yeah?" He glanced over at the shut door of the bedroom. Eames was in there, getting dressed. They had had to go buy him a pair of jeans, but he'd gone with their young lady. Arthur had been too busy to stand around and watch someone try lots of the same clothes on.

She moved next to the mirror and shifted uncomfortably. He wondered if she wanted to go over the plan for tonight again. She did like things to be solid; to have input from everyone. This one had been fairly rushed.

There was a small frown on her face and Arthur watched her for a moment, his hands stopped their movement around his waistline.

"What is it?"

"Eames..."

"What?"

She took a deep breath. "Eames. How do you feel about him?"

"What?" Surprise flitted through his veins.

"Arthur... Answer me." Her voice was hard now that she had gotten her question out.

"Well, I ... umm... Eames is... Well, he's brilliant." He huffed a laugh. "Really. You've seen how well he forges." Arthur kept his voice quiet, "He was an amazing leader when I met him in the army. His squad would do anything he asked of them." Ariadne smiled at him, but Arthur wanted to keep talking. Maybe a sympathetic ear could help him muddle through the feelings he'd buried so deep.

Not yet though. Eames was getting dressed behind a thin wooden door. He'd wait until they were alone.

"Ohhh, Eames!" gasped Ariadne. Arthur turned and froze. The forger wore a dark grey, patterned shirt. It wasn't a terribly nice pattern, but Arthur could see black ink peeking out the short sleeves. Eames also wore tight black jeans. He'd known the denim would cling indecently to the man.

"You need to change your hair." He stated in the flattest voice he could manage, feeling slight relief as Eames winced at him.

"What? Really..." But he allowed Ariadne to drag him into the bathroom.

The point man tucked a gun into the back of his own jeans as curiosity bubbled in him as to what their architect would do. He tried to imagine Eames with anything but a side parting, but failed. He'd seen the man with a crew cut before, but that had been nearly a decade earlier and he couldn't marry up the two images. A teenager with 90s hair briefly flitted through his mind, but he firmly shoved cit away. He wasn't going to be distracted by that.

Two bodies emerged from the bathroom, one with a smug grin, the other wearing a disgruntled look below carefully styled spikes. The man looked years younger; probably closer to his actual age of thirty two.

Arthur pulled on his coat as he spun to face them.

"You both know exactly what to do, yes?" his stomach was clenched so tightly that Arthur felt a bad mood settle over him. It was time to go, before he got angry over something.

"Do cheer up, darling. We _are_ going for a night out."

"I'll cheer up when this is over and done with."

Eames laughed, brushed a hand gently over Arthur's shoulder as he double checked ammo and headed out.

"I can't believe I'm going out with you guys!" laughed Ariadne. He did rather understand. As much as she was his protégé, she was still his co-worker. He did not usually spend time with his co-workers outside an actual job. Observing the mark was usually something Eames did alone. He headed down the two flights of stairs quietly, leading them out into the street.

They were going to the same restaurant as the others, and Arthur wished he had his laptop for something to do. It was nothing against his companions, but if James Crawford and his colleagues stayed chatting for a long time, the amount of small talk he could manage may not be up to it. He did not want to sit in what looked like awkward silence while they waited for the other group to clear out.

Eames had assured him they would be fine, but as he stood and watched them try to hail a taxi, Arthur wished he had his laptop.

His wallet, his phone, his gun, his keys... was he missing anything? Did it matter? Eames had shoved him into the back beside Ariadne, claimed shotgun and was telling their driver where to go. He hoped they didn't mess anything up.

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><p><em>Done, I hope you are still enjoying it. Again, please let me know if you spot any mistakes, and please do review. It makes me very happy.<em>


	4. Chapter 4

_Hey, I figured it's been a week, so it must be time to do another chapter. Sorry if it's a little disjointed. I'm watching Fawlty Towers at the same time as doing this. I do find it very funny._

_Thanks so much to my unnamed reviewer, arzena, TheCatInTheHat and English Muse-loving Moomin. Four reviews – this made me very happy! Riding shotgun is sitting in the passenger seat of a car, just so you know =D_

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><p><span>Chapter 4<span>

Arthur quietly swallowed his final mouthful of beer, the bitter liquid slid down his neck forcing a sigh upwards. His gaze focused on the small, pale hand in front him. Ariadne wanted to dance. About a decade earlier, maybe a little less, he'd been very fond of going to clubs when he'd been on leave and mashing up against both men and women to the likes of Journey, Deee-Lite, Madonna and the Rolling Stones.

He briefly considered mentioning this to the young woman, but he too often felt older than his thirty one years anyway. She would have been in school then... he tried to remember what he had been like in school; Naive, probably. He had not understood the world back then. He hadn't even had sex till he left High School, a few months before he joined the army. It'd been only 2 months after that that he first tried drugs. He hadn't much enjoyed the later, a fear of addiction too great for him to stick with it. Then, he'd only been about a year into his service when they told him he had been put on the dream share project.

He was put on somnacin, which had short term effects of the loss of dreams; which hadn't been around long enough for any long term side effects to be documented; which hadn't been classed as addictive to those exposed long term to it. His head was a little fuzzy, but he kept a hold of Ariadne's hand. He had a vague feeling that the way he was swaying against her, arms and body moving in time to the music, ought to be embarrassing, but then he caught sight of Eames; he was still dressed in those beautifully tight jeans, with his hair more scruffy than it had been earlier, the man was weaving his way over to them, and his thoughts blanked momentarily.

"Ready to go?" He shouted, but Eames shook his head and carried on towards the bar. Behind the forger, and openly staring at his arse was the mark. Bitterness instantly flooded him. What was Eames thinking? Their client believed her husband was having an affair with one of the women he worked with. Eames was complicating things. How dare he?

It was only Ariadne wrapping a thin arm around his waist that stopped him marching over there and demanding an explanation. It was staying here, or risk punching someone, so he took a deep breath and tried to focus on the song. Maybe if he took the time to work out the lyrics he wouldn't be so angry. He'd think up a logical argument to present to the forger tomorrow.

He took another deep breath, trying to centre himself, but couldn't help wrinkling his nose slightly. There was a snort of laughter from the source of the too fruity scent. He sighed and looked down into his friend's large, amused eyes.

"I'm going for some fresh air." He shouted over the throbbing base line.

"OK, let's go." She kept a hold of his hand and looked expectantly at him. He felt a warm rush of appreciation move through him, and experienced a highly unexpected urge to hug her. He shouldn't have mixed his drinks.

"Don't be jealous Arthur." Ariadne earnestly insisted once they were outside in the cold, late autumn air.

"What?"

"That gorgeous guy may have been pressed close up to Eames, but Eames isn't for him."

"What?" She could be a little overwhelming at the best of times, her quick mind jumping to things; linking things almost instantly. Right now, he was more than a little drunk, having had wine and beer and shots and possibly some lager as well. He stared blankly at her.

"I know Eames can be friendly, but he has nicknames for us. _Nicknames_! For you especially. You are his duck and his darling and his love and his pet. Like I am his petal, or flower... or goose, more recently." She pulled a face at that, then shrugged and looked expectantly at him.

He nodded and sat on the wall, thinking. There were some people who benefitted from alcohol. It lowered certain blockages in their minds that their lack of imagination created. It lowered their inhibitions and allowed new bridged between information, letting them become linked. Their minds, too unbending while sober, lost all their rigidity.

Arthur was not one of those people; or rather, even if he was... the little drivers of the cars of his thoughts refused to move while intoxicated, so the briefly unbarricaded bridges went unused. Maybe that _did_ mean he had some imagination while sober. He'd have to remember that so he could tell Eames.

Thinking of the man sent a jolt of discomfort through him. Ariadne clearly thought he was jealous, he realised as his drunken mind began to work again in the fresh, cold air.

The young woman was now sat on the wall beside him.

"Arthur? If I sit here with these bouncers, will you go and get Eames? I've had a really long day, and I need sleep."

He frowned, but nodded his head. He knew he couldn't leave without the other man. He moved back into the thrumming music and spotted Eames near the bar. He looked highly uncomfortable; a strange look on the face of a man who was often essentially a chameleon – always adapting. The mark, James Crawford, had an arm around his Eames' shoulders and was trying to pull him to his chest.

Arthur saw red. He stormed over to them and threw himself at the tall, broad man.

The look on Eames' face was a mixture of relief and amusement. At least he wasn't angry, he thought distantly. The point man used this knowledge to pull himself off the idiot, wrap a hand around his forger's wrist and vacate the building.

Outside, Ariadne had moved. She stood, her feet planted firmly on the ground as she exchanged barbs with a young blonde wearing little more than a hand towel. Each had a bouncer beside them, but while the furious blonde was being restrained, Ariadne was not.

"You little shit!"

"Oh, nique ta mere!"

"Heard you speaking English earlier, freak!"

"Putain."

"Where's your little boyfriend gone? Off his fuck _his_ boyfriend? Didn't take 'em long, did it?" She smirked in Arthur's direction. He frowned, but allowed his friend to fight her own battle.

"Ça me frait chier, salope!"

"Ari? Let's go." The brunette was grinning as she walked over to them and linked arms with Eames.

"I love doing that." He couldn't help grinning too.

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><p>It was only after they had dropped Ariadne off in her bed and they were stood outside Eames' door as the forger tried to pull the key card of out his (tight, <em>tight<em>) pocket that Arthur wondered why he didn't let Eames right his own battle.

He stood and watched Eames wiggle sweaty fingers into his jeans, and snatched it off him as soon as it was free.

"Thanks, Arthur." Eames' husky voice mumbled.

He wanted to explain himself; to say why it had been quicker to just hit the man; that if Ariadne was jetlagged and exhausted, Eames had to be too, especially as Eames had had an earlier flight, and a slightly longer one. However, the words wouldn't come.

"Anytime." He forced out finally.

"Didn't know what to do. Couldn't think by then." Was it exhaustion making Eames slur his words, or alcohol?

"Don't worry about it." he went into desk drawer, looking for the bottles of water Eames usually kept in there. "Here, drink."

As Eames wordlessly obeyed, Arthur filled a glass with water from the bathroom and set it on the bedside cabinet. Eames started to strip off for sleep, and Arthur flushed and hurried out the room. Entering his own room, he belatedly realised Eames had allowed the mark near him originally because of their job, even if he had been trying to escape the attention by the end.

The knowledge filled Arthur with a relief he would deny feeling to himself once he sobered up.

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><p><em>Done, hope you enjoyed reading it. I certainly enjoyed writing it. Drunken Arthur is fun. As ever, please let me know what you think, and point out any mistakes I've made =D<em>

_(And also, wow - my handwriting is actually terrible. It is defintely bad that I struggle to read it...)  
><em>


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